The Girl in the Box 01 - Alone (19 page)

I didn’t know what to say. I felt the pressure of his eyes on me, so calm and reassuring, looking at me in a way I had rarely seen. “I…I…” I stuttered.

Caring. That’s what his eyes were. And I realized again how good looking he was. And older. And I tried to keep in mind that he was spying for Ariadne and Old Man Winter, but that thought faded when I looked into his deep brown eyes. “I…I promise.”

“Attagirl.” He stood, extending a hand to help me up. I humored him and took it, feeling a little dazed. I kept focused on him and watched his eyes swim for a moment, and he let go of my hand. “I should…uh…get going.” He took a step and seemed to trip, then cast a look back at me to see if I noticed. “Felt a little lightheaded there for a second.” His smile turned to a grin. “Must be the effect of being around you.” He walked to the door and knocked on it, then left when it slid open, sending me back one last smile.

I groaned when he left, mostly from the last cheesy line he’d said, but also from the fact that he’d extracted the promise from me that he had. My fingers tingled with pleasure from the feel of his touch on my hand and left me wondering about all the things in the world that I’d never experienced – but less about the ones he had mentioned…and more about the ones he hadn’t.

Three more days, one hundred and thirty-two more dead. I was well past the point of sick and into the realm of deathly numb, if such a thing existed. If I had any doubt that I was the world’s worst person, it was dissolved when some unnamed individual slid a note under my door that I found first thing in the morning. I didn’t bother to ask the guards how it got there. It read:

People are dying by the hundreds and you’re hiding. If he comes back here, you won’t find much help from any of us because everyone here pretty much hates you and we’re all rooting for him to turn you inside out.

Ariadne hadn’t stopped by in several days and the guards hadn’t initiated any conversations, so my only human contact was when a cafeteria worker brought me meals three times per day. It was always the same person, a middle-aged woman who didn’t have anything to say. At all. I caught her scowling at me when she thought I wasn’t looking. Based on her attitude, I had to guess the letter was on target.

The crisis in Minneapolis had gotten so bad that there were police and SWAT teams on constant call. Helicopters circled, watching for any sign. Wolfe had progressed from only slaughtering people in their homes to killing people in public places as he moved between potential victims – he had been caught on several automated cameras. When four houses in a row in one of the western suburbs was hit it started a louder clamor; previously Wolfe had restricted himself to working in Minneapolis proper.

Since then he had jumped around, but the police always seemed to be a couple steps behind him, at least according to the news. Hundreds of witnesses reported seeing him, even just a flash in passing, and the police were overwhelmed because at the slightest hint of a noise people were calling 911 for help; as a result, instances of violent crime were up 142% (again, according to the news) and tons more were going unnoticed. As one reporter put it, “It’s a good time to get away with murder in Minneapolis because, amidst all the other bodies, who’s going to investigate one more?”

All my fault. Every last one of them.

I was still glued to the TV, watching every update, every bit of breaking news that really wasn’t breaking, every police press conference, every release of another victim’s name. I felt more powerless than at any time prior in my life, worse than any occasion I’d been locked away. When I was prisoner in my own home I never had to worry my actions would cause harm to anyone or anything – except maybe Mom’s feelings, if she had any.

I was waiting, hoping to hear that M-Squad had returned or that Wolfe had been run over by a garbage truck (maybe that would kill him) or anything – anything to break the twenty-four hour press of guilt.

And then I did.

“Breaking news,” I heard an anchorperson say for the one millionth time in the last few days. I was lying on the floor. It wasn’t as soft as the bed but I didn’t feel like I deserved the bed right now. “We go live now to Winston Haines, who is in a chopper above Southdale Mall, where Edina police have cornered the suspect in the slayings that have gripped the Twin Cities in a wave of terror.”

I stood and moved closer to the TV. The angle changed to look down on a parking lot, where a lone figure raced across the pavement. My heart stopped, along with my breath.

It was Wolfe.

I watched as he hurdled a car, running flat out from three police cruisers and a SWAT van that were behind him. Two more cruisers cut him off and boxed him in. Cops opened doors and I saw them fire right away, not even bothering to say anything. It was a smart move on their part, but I had to wonder if it would be enough.

Wolfe went down to a knee under the sheer volume of gunfire. The reporter was blathering on about civil rights but I silently cheered the cops on, hoping that they would put him down like the rabid dog he was.

And maybe it would be over. And I could get out of here. And go…anywhere else. Somewhere that I wouldn’t have to think about any of this.

The SWAT van popped open and black-suited team members swarmed toward Wolfe, who was now on all fours, and a moment of silence prevailed as the reporter shut up. They surrounded him and I hoped that maybe the bullets they had shot him with had more power than the shotgun rounds I’d seen him shrug off. They pointed their guns at him point blank, and then one of them stepped in, handcuffs at the ready, going slow, amazed that Wolfe was still alive and moving after the hail of bullets that had been thrown at him.

As he started to reach for Wolfe’s hand to place the cuffs on, I flinched away. It was an involuntary response born of the realization that something terrible was about to happen. When I blinked my eyes open a second later, it was already done. Wolfe was in motion, his claws raking through body armor, sending cops flying through the air just as he had when he assaulted the Directorate.

They didn’t shift the camera away from the scene, which surprised me, especially when the blood started to flow. Wolfe swept through the SWAT team in less than ten seconds, and their Kevlar vests and riot helmets did nothing to stop his slashes and punches.

When he was finished with the SWAT team, he started on the cops from the cars that had surrounded him. The first few kept shooting, dodging him in futile efforts to escape his grasp. He used his teeth when he got hold of them. The last few ran, each in a different direction, and the camera followed him as he bounded after them. I didn’t watch nature programs very often, but I’d seen lions take down wounded gazelles, and it was disgusting to watch.

The reporter provided commentary on the horrors of what we were seeing as Wolfe finished the last police officer with a rough decapitation, holding the man’s head up in the air, facing toward the helicopter. He then pointed right at the camera, and it zoomed in to the point where every detail of his horrible face was visible, his teeth, his black eyes and even the blood dripping from his claws as he pointed.

At me. I could feel it. He was pointing at me. He hoped I was watching. Maybe he
knew
I was watching.

He mouthed words. “We don’t know quite what he’s saying…” The reporter’s voice was sheer astonishment. But he was wrong. I knew exactly what he was saying. And I didn’t even have to be that good at reading lips to figure it out; just had to have heard the repetitive taunting from him, with that same sadistic look, the one that I knew contained not one ounce of insincerity.

“Little doll…come out and play.”

Wolfe bolted into the mall at the approach of another half dozen cop cars; probably not because he couldn’t take them all out and then some, but because he had other things on his agenda. The news reported later that he’d cut his way through the patrons of the stores, leaving another thirty or so dead, a few others wounded before he bolted out an exit and disappeared.

At this point I was ill enough that I flipped off the TV. Watching wasn’t helping. A reminder that I’d had a hand in the deaths of another sixty or more people, people who had families, parents, kids – that didn’t help me at all. It didn’t help me want to keep my promise to Zack, anyway.

I stared at the stainless steel walls for the next hour. I resolved not the smash the TV to pieces, no matter how much I wanted to vent my frustration. I went to the bathroom and took a long, hot shower, but not as long as I wanted because I kept thinking about all the people dead right now that wouldn’t ever again get to experience the simple pleasure of something as basic as a hot shower on a cold day. Or shopping malls. Or theaters…or anything that Zack had listed off. Ever again.

Or a hug from someone who loved them.

I had been ready to turn off the water and get out when I started shaking with emotion at that thought. I heard someone say once that it wasn’t possible to miss what you never had. But if that was true, why did I want someone to love me, to hold me, just once?

It took me almost twenty minutes to compose myself, and when I stepped out my dinner was waiting for me, along with an unpleasant surprise.

“I brought your food,” Kurt Hannegan said with a sneer. “No one else wanted anything to do with you.” He had been almost to the door to leave and had turned back just to toss the shot at me.

“I’m not hungry.”

“I guess it’s hard to work up an appetite when all you do is sit by while people die because of you.” He paused at the door for a beat, then turned to knock on it so the guard would let him out.

“Wait,” I called to him. My voice must have sounded as lifeless to him as it did to me, because he listened.

“What?” The air of impatience surrounded him as if, insult now delivered, he couldn’t wait to get away from me.

“I don’t want anybody to die,” I said in a voice that sounded smaller to me than I could have imagined when I formed the words.

“It’s a little late for that now,” he snarled. “Hell, it was too late the day after you goaded Old Man Winter into sending us back to your house.”

“I need your help,” I said to him.

He laughed. “You’ve had my help before and all it got was a bunch of my buddies dead—”

“I want to go to Wolfe. Myself.” He raised a stunned eyebrow. “I don’t want anybody else to die. I need to get out of here so I can go to Wolfe; so I can end this.” I held up my hands at my sides. “So I can give him what he wants.”

Hannegan hesitated, regarding me with suspicion. “You playing games with me?”

“No,” I said, returning to the lifeless voice. “I just want this to be over.”

“Yeah,” he said, suddenly incensed, “and get my ass fired for helping you commit suicide.” His eyes narrowed. “But I tell you what…your guard changes at seven A.M. If someone was to try and escape an hour before that, at six, especially if they were super strong, they could sweep through the guards – without hurting anybody seriously,” he said with emphasis, “and there might be a few minutes when the cameras were off. If you went west, past the cafeteria and across the field toward the woods, there’s a road behind the wall of the campus. A meta could clear it with a jump, easy.”

“And what would I find there?” I was hollow, just waiting to see what he had in mind.

“Maybe nothing. Maybe a ride.” He turned back to the door. “I wouldn’t want to be accused of helping you.”

“You’re not,” I said in a rasp.

He knocked on the door and left without further comment. After he was gone, I stared at the blank TV screen for a while. Decision made. You know what finally did it? What finally pushed it over the top? I saw at least one of the dead cops was a woman. She looked to be of an age where she might have a little girl. A little girl whose mom wouldn’t come home tonight.

Sounds familiar.

I watched TV to kill the time without falling asleep. I found now that the decision was made, all the weariness of the last few days was creeping in, ready to overtake me. But I couldn’t let it, not yet. They hadn’t left me an alarm clock and I didn’t trust myself not to sleep through this, or I would have tried to contact Wolfe in my dreams. I asked the guard at the door for some coffee. He sneered, made a sarcastic comment about how he wasn’t my serving wench, and let me know he’d have someone else deal with it.

I couldn’t wait to punch him in the face.

I’d never passed slower hours, not even in the box, without any visual or auditory stimuli but those I made myself. Every news report that rehashed the incident at the mall and all the new deaths seemed elongated, stretching into infinity. The metal hands of the clock that hung in my room moved as though they weighed tons rather than grams.